The Good Son
by Charlie4short
Summary: Set pre-Season 1: How does John Winchester react when one of his sons does not obey quickly enough on a hunt? Seeds are sown. Chapter 1: Sam's POV. Chapter 2: Dean's POV. Hurt Dean, caring Sam, struggling/abusive John. No slash.
1. Chapter 1: Sam's POV

**THE GOOD SON**

 **CHAPTER ONE: SAM POV**

"Sammy, go take a bath."

"But, Dad, I'm too big for baths! I take showers now, remember?"

"Bath, Sam. Now!" John was already yanking his belt off as he stalked across the room to turn the TV on.

Sam looked to Dean, trying to think of a way to stop this.

Dean's face was white, but he shook his head, mouthing the word "Go".

Sam went.

The running water and loud television weren't enough to block out the sound of leather striking flesh, of his father's angry tirade...and eventually of Dean's raw, pain-filled promises.

"Yessir. I'm sorry, Sir. I'll listen next time, I swear."

And finally, "Please Dad, please!...I'm sorry."

The TV show had ended and the news was on by the time Dad had knocked on the bathroom door. "Time for bed, Sammy."

He dried off, got dressed, and brushed his teeth, putting an ear to the door before opening it. Past experience had taught him that Dean hated to still be crying when Sam walked out.

The room was both dark and quiet when Sam cracked the door. He opened it all the way, the light falling on the figure of his father, sitting in the chair farthest from the bed that Dean was lying on. The man paused in the act of tilting a bottle up to his mouth. "Turn the light off, Sammy."

There were tears on his face.

Sam did as he was told, crawling into bed as carefully as he could. He reached out, wanting to offer comfort, only to hear Dean hiss "Don't touch me" as he jerked away.

Sam's pillow was wet.

The spots looked dark in the dim lighting. Dipping a finger tip into one of them, he raised it to his nose, confirming his suspicion. "Dean," he whispered as quietly as he could, "there's blood on my pillow."

"I know, Sam. Go to sleep."

"What's it from? Did that ghost hurt you?"

"I said go to sleep, Sammy."

So he had, but the next morning Dean hadn't moved at all, and Sam could see that there were scattered drops of blood on the bed, too.

"Go brush your teeth, Sam." His father's voice came, low and quiet, from the chair across the room.

Sam wondered, eyeing the beer bottles as he passed, if the man had spent the night there.

John Winchester's belt hung in the bathroom, clean but damp.

Sam finished brushing his teeth and stepped out to the sight of his brother, face down and stripped bare, being ministered to by their father.

"Come and help with this, Sammy."

Horrified, Sam approached the bed. Dean was holding a pillow over his head, arms wrapped around it, crushing it against him. John was pressing a towel against Dean's side to catch the alcohol that ran off of him as his father poured it over the cuts that crossed his back.

"Sit down, Sam. See what I'm doing here? Take a towel and that bottle and do the other side."

Sam climbed carefully up on to the bed, sliding close to his brother. He took in the corded muscles in Dean's arms and shoulders, the bruises and welts running from the base of his neck to the backs of his knees.

"Breathe, Dean," John commanded, and when the rib cage obediently rose and then fell, nodded to Sam: "Pour."

Sam tucked the towel against Dean's side, pressing it firmly as he watched the clear, cold liquid run over his brother's battered skin. He could feel Dean trembling.

He glanced at his father, wanting to apologize to Dean, but afraid of incurring John's wrath.

As if reading his mind, John spoke: "The sooner we get this done, the sooner Dean will start to feel better."

And in that moment, Sam hated his father.


	2. Chapter 2: Dean's POV

**THE GOOD SON**

 **CHAPTER 2: DEAN POV**

"Sammy, go take a bath." His father's voice betrayed his anger.

Dean moved toward the bed, knowing what was coming next.

"But, Dad, I'm too big for baths! I take showers now, remember?"

"Just go, Sammy," Dean muttered, too low for anyone to hear. He wanted his brother out of the room before this started.

"Bath, Sam. Now!" Their dad was already yanking his belt off as he stalked across the room to turn the TV on.

Sam was staring at Dean, eyes wide. He knew what was coming, too, and Dean was pretty sure Sam was trying to think of a way to help him.

Dean shook his head, mouthing the word "Go".

Sam went.

As soon as the bathroom door closed, Dean sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots off.

"Good," John snarled. "I see you remember the drill."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on his boots. "Strip, face down on the bed, don't move, stay quiet."

John snorted. "If you'd listened that well out there, we wouldn't be doing this right now."

Dean pulled his shirt off, trying to slow his heart rate by force of will. "I know, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"Hurry up," was his father's reply, and he began wrapping one end of his belt around his fist.

Humiliation warred with fear as Dean shimmied hurriedly out of his jeans and boxers, then quickly lay on his stomach on the bed. From past experience he knew that keeping quiet would be hard, and he pulled a pillow over his head, wrapping his arms around it and locking his fingers together.

The first blows came without warning, raining down on his unprotected backside like molten lava. He gasped, crossing his ankles as his body went taught in silent protest at the onslaught.

The lecture began, each word accompanied by a blow, now spreading out to cover Dean's thighs and back.

"You. Disobeyed. A. Direct. Order."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dean gasped, voice muffled. Couldn't tell his father that he froze. Some things were worse than being punished for disobedience.

"I. Command. You. Obey. Immediately. No. Questions. No. Hesitation."

"Yessir." It was difficult to breathe, but even harder to keep from crying. He clutched the pillow tighter.

"You. Almost. Got. Sammy. Killed."

Now his back was on fire, and his thoughts were becoming sluggish.

"Sorry, Sir."

"You. Could've. Gotten. Yourself. Killed."

"Sorry!" It came out in a high pitch, sounding so young that Dean almost didn't recognize his own voice.

"I. Can't. Lose. You. Two."

There was a pause in the torment, and Dean dared to hope that his punishment had neared its end.

"Yessir. I'm sorry, Sir." He rushed to get the words out, voice strained, breathless. "I'll listen next time, I swear. Please..." _No more_ , he wanted to add, but knew better.

And then the blows rained down, rage-fueled, fast, hard, on every exposed inch of flesh, too close together for Dean to apologize, or beg, or recover, and the pain was so intense, he couldn't breathe, and inside his head he was screaming, begging his father to _stop, please please stop_ -

Abruptly he lunged for the side of the bed, abdomen convulsing.

John dropped the belt just in time to thrust a waste basket under his son's heaving face. Bile mixed with mucus and saliva spilled into the can.

Dean pushed himself weakly back into position, wiping his mouth on the sheet as he dragged his face across it.

Through slitted eyes he watched John stoop, rising with the bloodied belt in his hand.

Dean knew he couldn't take any more. Not without screaming. Or blacking out. "Please Dad, please!" He heard the tears in his voice, and hated it. "I-I'm suh-sorry."

John dropped the belt, and Dean choked back a sob.

"I'm s-sorry, Dad." He couldn't stop shaking, but needed his father to know how grateful he was that the punishment was over. "I'm r-really, _really_ suh-sorry."

And suddenly John was on his knees, one hand on Dean's hair, forehead pressed to his son's temple. "I'm sorry Dean. I hate doing this to you. I was so afraid for you two, and when parents are scared they get angry….but I can't….I can't risk losing you. Or Sam. And I don't know how else to get you to…."

His voice trailed off, and Dean realized that his father was crying.

"I'm sorry, D-Dad. I'm sorry I m-made you d-do this. It's okay. I'll do b-better. I p-promise."

And in that moment, Dean hated himself for what he'd put his father through.


End file.
